


moon above the ocean

by IndianSummer13



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, F/M, Flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29433096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndianSummer13/pseuds/IndianSummer13
Summary: It’s the girl from yesterday, dressed in tiny shorts and flip flops this time. Her hair is still straight and her nails are still polished and she still looks like a kook.“We weren’t The Seafood Shack yesterday and we’re not The Seafood Shack today,” he says, dropping his pen onto the list of charter bookings. “How were the oysters?”“You need to work on your customer service, you know that?” she says, taking a closer look at the photograph on the wall. “And the oysters weredelicious,thank you for asking.”-Or, a meet-cute in the Bahamas.
Relationships: Sarah Cameron & John B. Routledge, Sarah Cameron/John B. Routledge
Comments: 12
Kudos: 16





	moon above the ocean

He can tell from the moment he sets eyes on her that she’s in the wrong place. He needs to change the name of this damn shop.

“Hi,” she says, twirling a strand of sandy-blonde hair around her forefinger, sundress far too white and clean for her to be after either a charter or a shitty tuna sandwich. “Am I in the right place for the oyster bar?”

He laughs and she scrunches her nose. “You’re after The Seafood Shack, right?”

She glances down at her phone. He notices her nails are painted coral-pink. “Yeah.”

“Sorry, but this is The Shack. No seafood.”

_Not unless you count the canned tuna of course._

“Shit. I -” She looks up, regarding him with slightly narrowed eyes. Her mouth opens as if she’s about to say something but then closes again. “Am I far away?”

He points back out of the door. “Down the street and take a left, then your first right. You’ll see it.”

She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Thanks.”

“Enjoy your oysters.”

“Thanks.”

_He hadn’t meant it._

“Enjoy your…” she trails off, taking in the crappy attempt at a chicken salad sandwich. “Whatever that is.”

Her tone is just as snarky as his and he finds he doesn’t hate it.

-

John B looks up as whoever has just walked in clears their throat. It’s the girl from yesterday, dressed in tiny shorts and flip flops this time. Her hair is still straight and her nails are still polished and she still looks like a kook.

“We weren’t The Seafood Shack yesterday and we’re not The Seafood Shack today,” he says, dropping his pen onto the list of charter bookings. “How were the oysters?”

“You need to work on your customer service, you know that?” she says, taking a closer look at the photograph on the wall. “And the oysters were _delicious_ , thank you for asking.” She fingers the gilt-edged frame. “Is this you?”

“So what can I do for you?” John B asks, ignoring the question.

“I asked around. Everyone says you run the best charters on the island.”

He laughs, a single burst of air. “There isn’t much competition.”

“You treat all your customers with this much contempt?”

“Only the pretty ones.” It slips out and he regrets it instantly. She dips her head, cheeks pinkening as she tries to hide her smile. “So what, you want to see everything the island has to offer?”

“Yes.”

John B hands her one of the leaflets off the stack on the counter. “These are the tours. Times and prices are on the back.”

She doesn’t even look at the information. “I want a _real_ tour.” Her hand is on her hip and her bottom lip is now trapped between her teeth. God damn if she doesn’t intrigue him. “I’m willing to pay whatever.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He thinks of the slow puncture on the van. The power bill on the fridge. “Last charter’s due back at 8:15. If you’re here at 8:30, I’ll show you Eleuthera.”

She grins and there are tiny little indents in her lip. “See you at 8:30.” She turns, the scent of her hair catching on the wave of air from the ceiling fan. Coconut. “I’m Sarah by the way,” she adds. “Since you never asked.”

He raises an eyebrow. “John B.”

“I know.” There’s a lilt to her voice. “I asked around.”

-

8:30 comes and goes. So does 8:35 and 8:40. By 8:45 he’s pretty pissed off and then, right as he’s locking the door ready to head upstairs for the night, there’s a knock. She’s wearing another sundress – a blue one this time with a tiny pattern on it that John B thinks might be lemons.

“My dad was being a dick,” she says, and he guesses that’s her explanation for being late. She holds up a hundred dollar bill. “For your trouble.”

He takes it despite feeling something like embarrassment curl up his spine, stuffing it in the pocket of his cargo shorts. They walk the short distance to the boat without talking. There’s music playing from the different bars and restaurants down the street and on the next block over, reggae and rap and hip hop is blending into one.

He prefers the quiet calm of the sea, when the noise comes only from waves and the low thrum of the boat’s engine.

“So you’re a man of few words, huh?” she’s grinning and he wonders whether he just thought aloud.

They reach the jetty and she frowns as he tosses his backpack onto the deck of his beloved HMS Pouge. “What?”

“You take charters in _this_?”

John B ignores the slight sting because no, he doesn’t – but he still loves this damn boat. “You said you wanted to see the real Eleuthera. Can’t do that on the bigger boat.”

Sarah looks at him, her expression unreadable. “I did say that.”

“Watch your step,” he tells her, taking her hand to help her climb into the boat and catching a whiff of her perfume. It’s sweet and musky and, quite inexplicably, it makes his mouth water.

They travel away from the shore, the put-put of the little boat tumbling through the cooling evening air. The wind picks up a touch, whipping Sarah’s hair around her so she has to tame it with her hands, and he decides to show off a little, weaving the boat in and out so she’s half-shrieking and half laughing and he’s wearing a grin too.

He steers them inland and they moor at a rocky cove. Sarah looks at him, and then at the water lapping the underside of the boat, and then back at him again. “No jetties on these parts of the island,” he tells her. “Hope those shoes aren’t expensive.”

She huffs but he can tell from the slight smile as she rolls her eyes that she doesn’t really mind. “They are.”

She follows him anyway, slipping over the side of the boat and into the water so they can explore the scattering of passageways leading up the cliffside. “This was a smugglers’ haunt before the island became a kook paradise.”

“A what?”

“A rich people spot.”

Sarah raises an eyebrow, hand on her hip. “Am I a kook?”

“Uh huh.”

“And that makes you a what?”

John B hops down from the rock he’s clambered up and lands with a soft thud in the sand alongside her. “A pogue”

She nods towards his pride and joy. “Hence the boat?”

“Hence the boat.”

-

The air cools further as they travel north to the tip of the island before heading around to catch the sunset in the west. They moor at his favourite spot – the place he’s always dreamed of building his own house – and he helps her down from the boat.

They take a seat on the sand facing out towards the water, watching the sky bleed red and the handful of seabirds bobbing up and down on the waves.

“So what’s your story, John B?” Sarah asks.

“I don’t have one.”

She scoffs, twisting her hair on top of her head and securing it with a grip he’s not quite sure where she got from. “ _Everyone_ has a story.”

“Okay then, what’s yours?”

She quietens, smile sliding off her face in a way he recognises from his own mirror. He expects her to change the topic but then,

“My mom died when I was a baby and even though I don’t remember her, I guess I’ve never really got over it.”

He watches her, waits to see if she tells him anything else. She bites on the nail of her forefinger and then adds, “So yeah, I might be a _kook_ , or whatever you call it, but I’d give up the money if it meant my mom was still here.”

There’s a lump in John B’s throat, but he hears the words squeezing out around it before he’s even decided in his mind to tell her. “My mom left when I was a little kid.”

Sarah turns towards him, tugging her lip back between her teeth before she asks, “Do you remember her?”

“Not so much _her_ , but I remember everything about that day. My dad… he was a mess.”

He has no idea why he’s telling her this. He doesn’t want to keep talking but his mouth is operating of its own accord. “He went missing two years ago during a storm. Everyone thinks he’s dead but… maybe it’s hope. I just… I feel like he’s still out there you know? Somewhere.”

“John B,” Sarah says softly, placing her hand on his knee and squeezing gently. Her eyes are glassy – or maybe it’s his – and he realises he kind of likes sitting here with her. They don’t say anything else – a silent agreement of sorts.

He feels her shiver a few minutes later and pulls off the hoodie he’s wearing. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Her voice is little more than a whisper above the lapping waves as she takes the garment, slipping it easily over her head. It pretty much drowns her, but she looks good all the same.

Most of the west side of the island is in darkness as they head back, stars twinkling above them, the sun well and truly beyond the horizon now. He ties the boat up in its rightful place and then steps onto the jetty, offering her a hand.

“I want to go back there tomorrow,” she tells him.

“I’m working tomorrow.”

_He’s working every day._

“You were working today. 8:30?” she offers. “I can bring snacks. I heard your stomach growling.”

Now that she mentions it, he’s starving. “What kind of snacks?”

“What do you like?”

“Anything,” he replies.

Her smile is wide and there’s a dimple either side of her mouth. “Leave it to me, John B.”

It’s only when he crawls into bed that he realises she still has his hoodie.

-

She’s early this time, leaning against the side of The Shack when he returns from the final charter of the day. She has a canvas bag resting over her shoulder, his hoodie tied around her waist and is wearing a pair of shorts that let him know just how good her legs are.

“Hey,” she smiles, tucking her hair behind her ear. It seems to be a signature habit of hers and John B finds himself wanting to be the one to do it for her.

“Hey.”

“You hungry?”

_Always._ “Starving.”

Her grin widens. He thinks she might have the most perfect set of teeth he’s ever seen.

He locks up and they head down to the jetty, the air warmer this evening thanks in part to the clouds that have formed, trapping the heat from the day’s glorious sun. He takes the bag from her and Sarah climbs onto the deck, lithe legs golden from a day spent by the pool it seems.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” she tells him, standing beside him tonight as he steers the HMS Pogue away from town.

If he’s honest with himself, so has he. “Me too.”

They head south this time, taking in a few little spots he didn’t get chance to show her last night; finds himself telling her about meeting JJ and Pope, the first time they stole his dad’s boat and came upon a little fish restaurant, and Kie joined their ranks; relays the story of the fabled shipwreck somewhere off the southern point and all their failed attempts at trying to find it.

She listens to it all and John B keeps talking, unable – it seems – to stop now that he’s started, until eventually they steer towards the shore and it’s time to disembark. Her helps her off the boat with a hand at her waist and he can’t help but notice how perfectly it fits there; how much he wants not to remove it. He can feel how warm her skin is even through her shirt but he forces himself to set her down. He carries the bag instead, handing it to her once they’re seated on the sand.

Sarah pulls out chips first, and some little cookies in a plastic box. There are veggie sticks and olives, fried rice, chicken and barbecued shrimp. And then, he watches as she pulls from the bottom of the bag a bottle of tequila, a smaller bottle of some other liquor and what he guesses must be lime juice.

“Damn, you know how to pack a picnic,” John B grins, starting on the chicken while she pours questionable amounts of the various liquids into two red solo cups.

She smiles but doesn’t say anything, just hands him one of the cups and take an olive for herself.

-

They stay on the beach until well after the sun has set, avoiding the inevitable question until he finally asks about her dad.

“Won’t he wonder where you are?”

Sarah shrugs. “Maybe, but my stepmother drinks and my brother’s a liability so I’m sure they’ll keep him occupied.”

He has the sense to know not to talk any more about it, and so they turn back to the ocean, watching the boat rise and fall with each wave and listening to the soft crashing against the shore.

“John B,” she starts, and he turns to look at her. Her eyes are wide and her teeth are yet again trapping her bottom lip. The breeze picks up her hair, blowing it across her face and whatever she had been about to say doesn’t materialise.

-

They make the decision to leave eventually. It’s late and he has work early in the morning, and the buzz from the alcohol has worn off enough that they’re both a little tired.

“I had a great time tonight,” she tells him, half resting her body against his as they head back.

John B looks at her in the moonlight, dressed in his shack hoodie and looking like a fantasy he didn’t even know he had. “Me too.”

She stifles a yawn but he catches her and chuckles.

“Guess I could do with some coffee.”

He thinks of the machine in his kitchen, battered and sorry-looking but functional all the same, and takes a chance. “I could put a pot on when we get back, if you want?”

Her reply is quiet and she leans her head against his shoulder. Despite the fact that his arm is starting to ache, he refuses to move. “Sounds perfect.”

-

He closes the door behind them and ignores the way Sarah is taking everything in as he flicks on the coffee machine. He knows the painted wood is peeling and there’s no air conditioning so it’s always hot and he hasn’t cleaned properly in…well, _forever_ , but it’s still his place. He likes it enough to stay.

She makes her way over to the kitchen counter, leaning against its tiled surface. The coffee machine splutters into life, spitting out the first few drops of water until it finds a rhythm, and John B looks up to find her watching him.

“You know,” she says, lowering her voice to exactly the right tone that makes his body betray him. “I’ve been waiting all night for you to kiss me.”

“Yeah?” He steps closer – enough that his chest brushes again hers and he can smell the lime on her breath.

It’s Sarah who closes the last few centimetres, reaching up to her tiptoes. “Yes.”

Her lips are pillow-soft. He’s almost tentative at first, but when she loops her arms around his neck, pulling him closer so their toes bump and he can feel the heat of her breasts through his t-shirt, John B runs his tongue over her lips, sliding it inside her mouth.

He feels her sigh somewhere at the back of her throat; lets the vibration rumble into his own body where it travels to the lower part of his stomach. She tastes like the lime from the margaritas too: sweet and sharp and absolutely delicious.

-

Hs bedroom leaves a lot to be desired but he isn’t embarrassed. He knows the outfit of hers that’s now lying somewhere on the floor will likely have cost more than his whole wardrobe and yet he doesn’t care. Sarah is content to lay there, the early morning sun streaming in through the shutterless windows so that the room is painted in liquid gold as he trails patterns along the bare skin of her arms, and so John B isn’t about to complain.

“What about breakfast?” she asks, voice raspy from sleep. Her words vibrate against his neck and it makes his skin feel like a strange mixture of fire and ice.

“I can make eggs,” he offers. “Can’t promise they’ll be as good as last night’s picnic though.”

She giggles and the vibrations travel further south along his body. “How about you put the coffee on and I’ll go grab something from that little place down the street?”

He cranes his neck to kiss her, fingers splaying at either side of her jaw so he can tilt her head the way he found out she likes. “Or we could stay here?”

“You have work,” Sarah mumbles against his mouth. “Charters… _kooks_ ,”

“Those damn kooks,” he grins, kissing her once, twice and then again before hauling himself off of the mattress.

“And yet,” she drawls, sitting up so the sheet pools around her waist. “You have one in your bed.”

He grabs his shorts, yanking them on. “First time for everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always greatly appreciated.


End file.
